


Thimble

by Miss_Mahlzahn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 11:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19829002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Mahlzahn/pseuds/Miss_Mahlzahn
Summary: Crowley talked about the war-torn continent he had been to. When he had finished, both remained silent for a while.Then Aziraphale murmured: “I… uhm… I’ll go there. Might be away quite some time.”“Angel, you cannot go there!”“After all you told me, I’m afraid I can’t stay away.” Not mild, not admonishing, not even decidedly, but with a hint of fear.





	Thimble

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ein Fingerhut](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/499126) by MissMahlzahn. 



> Not a native speaker, corrections (and Beta-readers) welcome.

„Don’t do it!“ Crowley’s voice sounded both urgent and tired.

Aziraphale let out a small sigh. “You know me. You know I have to.”

With something akin to a moan, the demon rubbed his hands over his face.

“But there’s no point!” – now it was closer to whining.

“Crowley…” Carefully Aziraphale laid down the fountain pen. He brushed over the blotting paper, then folded the letter in half and pushed him into an envelope, using some sealing wax for good measure.

“It will break your heart”, Crowley whispered.

The demon sat on the small sofa next to Aziraphale’s bureau. When he had wordlessly marched into the bookshop at noon and collapsed on it, it had taken Aziraphale one glance to get up and fetch a bottle of gin and a second glance not to bother with glasses. The bottle still sat there next to the demon’s feet, untouched. Crowley had shaken his head once and then resumed staring downwards with a blank face. It had taken quite a while for him to react to Aziraphale’s questions, and even then his answers were tight-lipped.

He had been to the continent, in order to gather information for his reports.

Had been to Spain, to Germany, Austria, France, Russia. Had aborted his plan there and returned.

At this point, Crowley had started to talk, albeit haltingly, with a flat voice.

Aziraphale had listened quietly.

When Crowley had finished, both remained silent for a while.

Then Aziraphale had taken a sheet of paper and started his letter. “I… uhm… I’ll go there”, he had murmured distractedly. “Might be away quite some time. Do me a favour and hand this to Mr. Hardy this Christmas, if I’m not back then.”

“Angel, you cannot go there!”

“After all you told me, I’m afraid I can’t stay away.” Not mild, not admonishing, not even decidedly, but with a hint of fear.

“Aziraphale! I’ve been there for a couple of hours and worked a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty miracles, and it didn’t change anything, it didn’t! Like bailing out a river with a thimble!” Crowley had sprung to his feet and was now facing Aziraphale, arms extended, desperate. “Don’t do this to them! Don’t give them a hope you cannot fulfil!”

Aziraphale took a breath to reply, but stopped. Instead, he nodded slowly and lowered his gaze to his letter, again.

“Angel, listen to me, will you? Nothing you can do there will help. They will recognize you for what you are, and the few that are not yet broken and still hoping for Justice, for the Heavenly Host… Aziraphale, please! No one of your side is there! Not a single one … “ With a brittle sigh Crowley fell back onto the sofa.

Aziraphale sat down next to him. “I will be there, my dear. I will not be able to bring Justice, maybe I will not be able to bring help, but I will be there.” A trembling whisper.

With a muffled cry Crowley buried his head in his hands.

Throughout the years Aziraphale was away, Crowley never left London. To distract himself, he egged on politicians and industrialists, and once he made a perfect ball miss the goal which led to a mass brawl. He tried to avoid the news, especially news from abroad.

The commendations from headquarters he kept in a threadbare folder. Sometimes he thought to find a certain degree of bafflement and repulsion between the lines. Russia wasn’t mentioned at all. Crowley was grateful for this.

Nine years later, on a bright January morning, he was woken by the jingle of the shopdoor bell.

When he sat up on the small sofa and squinted, he recognized Aziraphale, who had entered the shop and was taking off hat and coat with measured moves.

His body looked battered, thinner, his hair closely cropped. Dark trousers held up by an old belt, a yellowed shirt, lumpy black boots.

Crowley stood, started towards him, stopped.

Aziraphale nodded at him, then took a deep breath. With a sound like wind in a mighty tree his wings manifested, and the angel closed his eyes and tipped his head back. A relaxed smile spread across his face, the mild warmth of spring engulfed him, and Crowley felt tears welling up.


End file.
